


come undone

by euphoriaspill



Category: The Fosters (TV 2013)
Genre: F/M, Forbidden Love, Past Rape/Non-con, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 16:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphoriaspill/pseuds/euphoriaspill
Summary: She wants him, and she'll cling to him with tooth and claw and everything she's got, long after anyone else would've cut their losses. — 1x14.





	come undone

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't canon-compliant. Really wish it was, though.

 

"I love you," Callie whispers into the crook of his neck, holding onto the words like they're holy, and brings his hand down between her legs. "Brandon. I love you."

She's always flown headlong towards disaster, a bird colliding with a window, her whole world brief spirals of sensation. She doesn't want to think about this. She doesn't want to do the right thing. "We don't have to," he says quietly, grasping one of the curls she's dangling in his face. "Liam— I'm not him. Never. That's not why I'm here, Callie."

Her blood flows like liquid sunlight in her veins, hot and bright; she throws herself at him and kisses him, scraping her lips on his teeth, trying to devour him through the mouth. Keep a part of him, even if this destroys them both. "Make him go away," she says, her breath catching in her throat as she pulls apart from him. "So I don't think about being in that room with him, when I think about sex. So I think about something good."

Brandon kisses her again, his gentleness enough to make her eyes sting with tears, and pulls at the hem of her shirt with one hand, unzips her jeans and shoves them halfway down her thighs with the other. Fast; they have to go fast, before Daphne and Kiara come back, before they have time to hesitate. He brushes against the damp patch on her underwear, and she has to bite her lip hard to keep from moaning when he reaches her clit, the cotton barrier between them unbearable. "More," she exhales. " _Please_ , Brandon."

"You're so wet," he says, his eyes wide— from another guy, it'd sound smug, but he's reverent, even a little scared, as he tugs her panties down and slips a finger in her. She clenches around him, rocking her hips and wishing she had something to hold onto; he adds another finger and fucks her fast, pressing his body so close to hers that she can't tell where his stops and hers begins, and kisses her wildly, sloppily. When he finds her clit again and rubs it in circles, there's a live wire coiled in the pit of her stomach, and her high, pleasured noises drown inside of his mouth. The pressure builds up until she comes with a stifled scream, digging her nails into his back for purchase, feeling too sated to have any room left for fear.

Callie doesn't say anything even after she recovers the ability to speak, only grips the front of his pants; he smiles sheepishly and glances at the door, but she's already pulled his cock out of his boxers and started to stroke him, trying her best to reciprocate. She has no idea what she's doing, going only by animal instinct and rewarded with his tiny shudders and mewls— he doesn't last long, collapsing against her in a sweaty heap, and then they're just two kids on her apartment floor again.

"You're beautiful," he says, helping her tug her pants back up and kissing a hickey he'd suckled into her shoulder; physical evidence of what they've done, that purpling brand she'll have to cover up back at Girls United. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

(It's not enough, that they love each other, but Jude was right about her— she's selfish. She wants him, and she'll cling to him with tooth and claw and everything she's got, long after anyone else would've cut their losses. Maybe she's ruining Brandon's neat, linear life, maybe the Adams-Fosters were kind enough to give her a home and she repaid them by running off with their golden boy, but she's willing to torch every bridge they ever had as long as he's pouring gasoline with her.)

( _I'm an outlaw, wanted, if you want me._ )

"I wish we could stay here," she says. In this sun-drenched moment, afterglow-happy and curled up together, planning where to put their furniture. Strumming the guitar until their fingers are sore. Brandon looking at her like he wasn't truly alive before she dragged him to go rescue her brother, this reckless girl with her awkward, choppy haircut and bruised jaw and eyes that burned.

He cups her face in his hands, staring straight at her. "We can, Callie," he insists, his voice cracking on the words. "No piece of... of fucking _paper_ is going to stop me from being with you. You'll get emancipated, and I'll get a job and move in here, and we'll have our kitchen table. I promise." 

Brandon has soaring dreams— Disney Hall, Juilliard, national glory— that her childhood of belt buckles and rent-controlled housing never had room for. But she can envision that kitchen table, the happy domesticity, being with someone who makes her feel so profoundly safe. She _wants_ this. She leans over and kisses him again, raw and hungry and hoping, and it's the first thing she remembers daring to want in a long, long time. 


End file.
